


vivid

by softouches



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Fluff (?), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a bit of angst, and his usual scorpio self, because then there are kids!!, but it's not sad!!, cemetery au, chan is lost, jiu from dreamcatcher makes appearance, minho emotional support boy, okay it would sound weird but, stan dreamcatcher!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softouches/pseuds/softouches
Summary: When Chan was a kid his life was full of superstitions.Don’t let black cat cross your road. Don’t walk under the ladders. Don’t look in the broken mirrors. His parents made sure that he avoids all kinds of bad omens, signs, and stays away from potentially dangerous things.No one told Chan that twenty-four years later he will be spending most of his time at the cemetery.It’s interesting how things work in life. One day you’re an aspiring music major student, and the next day you’re walking through greyness and dullness of the cemetery, with a flashlight in your hand while trying to scare off nosy teens who come there to entertain themselves.You could say life is a bitch.
Relationships: Bang Chan/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	vivid

**Author's Note:**

> wishing the happiest birthday to my fellow '98 liner!! it's a bit sad (as always) but i hope this story will cheer you up <3 
> 
> inspired by [the beach](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DujKJ1OaLQE&ab_channel=TheNeighbourhoodVEVO)
> 
> warning: some scenes occur at the cemetery, and there are slight mentions of death (as phenomena), so if you're uncomfy please be careful :(

When Chan was a kid his life was full of superstitions.

Don’t let black cat cross your road. Don’t walk under the ladders. Don’t look in the broken mirrors. His parents made sure that he avoids all kinds of bad omens, signs, and stays away from potentially dangerous things.

No one told Chan that twenty-four years later he will be spending most of his time at the cemetery.

It’s interesting how things work in life. One day you’re an aspiring music major student, and the next day you’re walking through greyness and dullness of the cemetery, with a flashlight in your hand while trying to scare off nosy teens who come there to entertain themselves.

You could say life is a bitch.

“And then he has the audacity to say he will fire me,” Jiu grumbles, packing her uniform in the bag. “As if there are a lot of volunteers to work at the fucking cemetery.”

Chan takes a gulp from his pack of juice with a confirming hum. Jiu was working on a day shift, which mostly meant dealing with people, rather than guarding the place from intruders.

Chan can’t tell what is worse.

“Why does he never have a problem with you,” she says, placing her hands on her hips. Then her eyes suddenly open wide, and she claps enthusiastically. “Let’s change shifts!”

Chan snorts. “No,” he mouths and Jiu almost hisses, getting back to packing her stuff. “My sleeping patterns are too wrecked to work at daytime now.”

“No, you just don’t want to deal with people.”

“Maybe I’m just a vampire.” Chan shrugs, watching as the sun finally hides behind the horizon. The skies are coloured in a vibrant orange, almost making it seem like it got swallowed by the summer heat.

“I bet you are,” Jiu replies, zipping her bag and throwing it on her shoulder. “Have a nice shift, creature of the night,” she rolls her eyes but gives a small smile at last. It feels warm.

Reassuring.

“I promise not to kill anyone.”

On that Jiu leaves, and Chan is alone again, only the sounds of TV echoing through the small cabin. He looks around and flinches from the sight of familiar shabby walls, cracks sticking out making the place seem even more broken than it is. Sometimes Chan feels just like those walls: with small cracks and dents that seem so insignificant yet make a one big void in the end.

He shakes his head trying to brush it off. With constant presence of death you start thinking in metaphors more.

Chan looks at the laptop in front of him. It makes everything feel sticky, as the amount of unfinished projects and folders with lyrics are staring back at him with a judgment, as if rightfully calling him out. It often feels like he is chasing something, you could say it’s a dream, but in the end every time he gets closer it feels more and more like just a simple illusion, dissolving right in front of his eyes.

Death, nights, and a pile of projects cramped on the desktop. A starter pack of the mild existential crisis.

Chan gives out a tired smile, remembering his first month working at the cemetery. When he entered a small, stuffy cabin Jiu looked at him like at a little kid, her gaze scolding, yet knowing. Chan has a lot on his mind, has dozens of questions that are waiting to be answered, but all that gets completely swallowed by sticky, gummed presence of fear, as they make their way through the hundreds and thousands of marble gravestones that are slowly piling up in one terrifying picture.

Chan never was a coward, yet every human being is scared of the presence of death.

“Why are you working here?” He asks Jiu once, finally confident enough to let the question slip from his tongue. Jiu is pretty. Beautiful, even. Tall, neatly built, and with a smile that is brighter than the sun.

Chan genuinely doesn’t understand what she’s doing here out of all places.

Jiu purses her lips, eyes wandering off somewhere afar, as she is thrumming her fingers against the table. “By the same token as you,” she finally answers, and in an odd way it settles down all of his questions.

The wild swirl of his thoughts almost sucks him in, as suddenly he hears a loud scream from the outside. It’s short, Chan has to do a double take to make sure this is happening for real. Not like he isn’t used to weird and odd people coming to cemeteries, but usually nights are considerably calm, most people hiding in their own houses after long and exhausting shifts.

Chan sighs, and when he’s ready to step out of the cabin, he notices a baseball bat resting against the wall in the corner of the room. After a second of hesitation he takes it, then locks doors with a key.

Chan is not a coward, but it’s better to be ready than dead.

Cemetery at night looks even more hollow, as Chan illuminates the path he is walking on with a flashlight. It’s the same greyness and dullness, but the sight of the moon in the skies along with the stars creates this almost majestic atmosphere, only a sound of his own footsteps striking the hooded silence.

After around five minutes of walking, when the path leads to the next turn, he sees a figure sitting on the bench, almost shining under the bright lights of a lamppost above him. Solely judging by visual appearance it’s most likely a man, he is dressed in a usual office attire – white shirt, a tie, a jacket lying on his knees – his hair is of warm chestnut brown colour, and his almost impeccable side profile makes Chan gape for a second.

Trying not to scare a stranger, he makes his way quietly and slowly, turning off the flashlight as his feet scrape against the ground.

“You’re not as quiet as you think, cemetery boy,” the man huffs, a small smirk appearing at the corner of his lips.

The cockiness irks Chan a bit as he comes closer. “And if you’re a serial killer?”

“Do I look like one?”

“A serial killer would never look like a serial killer,” Chan states as if it’s a well-known fact. “I have way too much free time to watch all the documentaries on Netflix, you won’t trick me into this,” he says, grasping on the baseball bat in his hands a bit tighter.

“I’m not a serial killer,” the man groans, throwing his head back a little. Chan acknowledges that he is, indeed, very pretty, especially under the soft moonlight.

“That's what a serial killer would say.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“I’m annoying?” Chan almost howls, the bat in his hand hitting the ground with a loud thump. “You do understand that  _ you  _ are the one who is breaking the rules?”

The man finally tilts his head to meet Chan’s gaze. His eyes are tired, but the look is piercing enough to indicate that he is not backing down. “I break the rules exactly  _ how _ ?”

“The visiting hours are over,” Chan replies, calmer this time. “Technically, I’m supposed to kick you out now.”

“Would you, though?” the stranger smiles, almost innocently.

Chan looks at the man in front of him curiously. He doesn’t look bigger or fitter than him, so not like he wouldn’t have an advantage in a fight. But something about the man is so painfully similar, and evokes a light feeling of empathy and sympathy, so Chan just shrugs, coming closer and plopping on the bench near the boy.

“You’re not a ghost either, right?” Chan asks, drawing fanciful patterns with a bat on the ground.

The man hums at that. “Of course,” he says with all the seriousness. “Came here to take your soul.”

“I don’t think I need it anyways,” Chan says with a bitter smile.

“Dramatic, aren’t we?” The man chuckles softly. “I’m Minho,” he says, leaning forward slightly with his whole body.

Chan freezes in his place for a moment, waiting for tension to let down. “I’m Chan,” he says, exhaling the soft clouds of steam. It’s early autumn, but the air at night is already cool, tenderly biting down on Chan’s skin. “So, what are you doing here, Minho?”

The latter chuckles, half-smile appearing on his lips. “What If I say I am, indeed, a ghost?”

“Not valid,” Chan deadpans. Even under the sharp night lights the boy looks warm.

“You’ll think I’m weird,” Minho huffs.

“Dude, I work at the cemetery.”

A soft giggle follows after a pause, bright and clear. “Okay, you have a point.” Minho looks somewhere in front of him, gaze wandering in attempts to find the place to stop his gaze. “Let’s make a deal, I’ll tell you why I’m here if you tell me why you work at the cemetery.”

Chan sighs. “Why would you even like to know?”

“Maybe I’m lonely,” Minho shrugs, clutching on the jacket on his knees. “Or, maybe I’m trying to prove myself I’m not a pathetic one here.”

“Rude,” Chan laughs, indicating the playfulness in Minho’s voice. It’s interesting how nighttime and a deserted place can make you open up to a stranger, making you feel that maybe you’re lonely together now. “I dropped out of college because I wanted to pursue music,” Chan starts, words flowing casually, as if they are actually friends. “Didn’t have guts to tell the truth to my parents. So now I’m just trying to survive, pay my bills, and this job allows me to do music even when I’m working.”

“Boring,” Minho snorts.

“I’m sorry, but what answer did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he scoffs. “You’re secretly interested in conspiracy theories and paranormal activity and every night you’re hunting ghosts in here until dawn.”

“Okay, maybe you are weird.”

“Told you.”

The silence is comfortable, to the point where Chan wishes he brought his laptop with him to work. He rarely goes out of cabin at night, haunting atmosphere of cemeteries having a rather creepy appeal, but Chan comes to a conclusion that it’s nice, and there is something oddly magical in it. “So, what about you?” Chan finally asks, turning his head to face Minho. “What’s your story?”

“I work with people mostly, you know?” Minho stops for a second and tries to contain the yawn, but fails, letting out a sound while covering his mouth. “Customer support,” he continues in a tired voice, “tons, dozens of angry and weird people who think that a day would not make sense if they do not terrorize at least one person working in service trades.” Minho shrugs, chuckling bitterly. “Don’t want to sound like a creep but cemeteries feel ….  _ peaceful _ . Not like lonely peacefulness, you know? Just calmness and steadiness where nothing happens.”

“I’m kind of tired of it though,” Chan admits. “I don’t think I spoke more than a hundred words for the last month, and those that I spoke were with my colleague.”

“Isn’t it nice, though?”

“Calmness and steadiness?” Chan asks and Minho nods in affirmation. “It’s nice at the beginning, but with the time it feels like you’re going insane, the silence is just … dragging you down? Kind of like a black hole.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely good with words,” Minho nudges him playfully, and Chan can’t resist a small smile appearing on his face. “Would be nice to switch for a day, right?”

“No, I still don’t like people,” Chan deadpans.

“Cliché,” Minho rolls his eyes. “A lonely guy who doesn’t like people working at the cemetery and fond of death.”

“I’m  _ not _ fond of death.”

“Dude, you’re fully dressed in black,” Minho notes, looking at Chan from head to toe. “I thought it was  _ you _ who came for my soul.”

“I’m nice,” Chan groans.

“You’re hot.”

The baseball bat falls to the ground with a thump as Chan chokes on his saliva, coughing hard.

“I’m sorry?” Minho says, patting Chan on the back in attempts to help.

“You’d better be,” Chan wheezes out, clearing his throat. “You can’t just say stuff like that to strangers.”

“Maybe I’m trying to charm you so I can come here every day?” Minho asks, eyes squinted playfully as he looks at him. Chan wants to say that Minho doesn’t even need to make an effort to do so, but his lungs and throat still hurt, so he takes it as a sign to stay silent. “And you’re objectively hot.”

“Thanks, I guess?” Chan scratches the back of his head, feeling his cheeks flushing. “You’re not bad yourself.” Chan thinks that maybe if he said that in a more confident voice an attempt of flirting would have been successful.

But it’s hard to be flirty when you spend ninety percent of your time with dead people.

Minho still seems to enjoy it, though, giggling softly under his breath. “I didn’t look for company when I came here, but you’re fun to be around, Chan.”

And Chan thinks that maybe his nights won’t be that lonely after all.

*

Turns out that Minho lives nearby. The rent is cheaper on the outskirts, as he says, and that he likes the calmness of the area even if it costs waking up earlier to get to his workplace.

“I’m an early bird anyways,” he says once, brushing off a worried look in Chan’s eyes.

They fall in this weird routine of meeting at nights, not even planning those gatherings, but rather finding that needed company. Minho tells him about his working days sometimes, and Chan tells him a bunch of useless facts that he picks up from watching documentaries.

Once Chan does bring a laptop with him, and plays some samples for Minho.

“It’s nothing much,” Chan says observing the latter’s reaction, his emotionless face expressing nothing but attentiveness. “But it’s kind of a passive income? I sell those samples, and get a bit of money in return.”

“What about songs?” Minho asks, leaning into Chan’s space. Their shoulders are brushing slightly, and it’s the first time when Minho initiates skinship. “You told me you write them as well, right?”

“It’s-,” he takes a deep breath before answering. “It’s mostly for myself. I don’t think I’m at that point when I’m ready to share them.”

“How do you plan on pursuing music then?” Minho’s voice is not judging, or accusing, rather filled with pure curiosity, but it still feels like a punch in the guts, completely knocking Chan down.

This question then keeps him up at nights, or rather, mornings, as well, when he lies in his bed and the train of thoughts seem to take a whole roundabout in his head. It seemed like someone put his life on pause the second he entered that goddamn cemetery – the movement and hustle around stopped, the people left, leaving Chan alone with his imaginary world and mere illusion of steadiness. And it feels like Minho is holding the remote control now, his finger ready to press play at any moment to make everything come into motion again.

“The beats are nice but the melody seems a bit off,” Minho is leaning back in one and only comfortable chair in the cabin, which leaves Chan to sitting on a tiny stool, that is almost on the verge of breaking down. “I would maybe change the key to fit the mood and make it more slow-paced.”

“What do you even know about music,” Chan mumbles, but still makes notes in his notebook, scribbling on the paper neatly.

“Your listeners are mostly ordinary lads like me,” Minho notes, crossing arms on his chest as if trying to defend himself. He is dressed in office attire again, and Chan can’t help but notice how nicely muscles are moving under the thin layer of slightly transparent fabric.

_ No, Bang Chan. You have other less valuable things to fuck up. _

“And anyways,” Minho continues with a shrug. “I dance from time to time—”

“You dance?” Chan screeches, almost falling from the stool but Minho catches him by the elbow quickly. “Sorry, you just never told me.”

“We have known each other for a week, Chan,” Minho rolls his eyes, but gifts him a small smile. “And it’s nothing special, just training children on weekends.”

“Children?” It’s hard to surprise or amuse Chan generally, but the revelation makes him intrigued. “You?”

Not that Minho is a bad person. He’s definitely not, Chan picked that up from the way he expresses his care in the slightest gestures and simple words.

But Minho is honest. Painfully so. Sometimes it’s hard to handle it even for Chan as a whole-ass adult, so it’s kind of hard to picture Minho’s interactions with kids.

“What’s surprising about that?” Minho arches an eyebrow at him, titling his head to the side.

“Asks a person who comes to a cemetery in their free time,” Chan scoffs.

“Not my fault society associates cemeteries with something bad.” Minho clicks his tongue, letting his gaze wander around the walls. “It’s death. Not a disease, or something shameful, we all will end up here sooner or later.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Chan huffs in reply.

The room submerges in silence for a moment, Chan looking emotionlessly at the monitors depicting images from cameras. As expected, the cemetery is empty, only a bunch of random animals running around from time to time. Minho still seems to be looking at the walls, and something tells Chan that he is looking at those dents and scratches on it as well, maybe not coming up with a fanciful metaphor, but still appreciating the hurtful reality that it reflects.

“Kids value sincerity, you know.” Minho’s voice is quiet, but smooth. Chan never heard the sound as pleasant as this. “There is this misconception, that kids lie and adults are honest. But that’s such bullshit,” he laughs, but it’s humourless, almost soulless. “If you’re honest with kids, they feel it, like no one else, and for that piece of sincerity they can give you the world, Chan. It’s beautiful.”

Minho’s eyes sparkle. It’s something between joy and passion, happiness and euphoria, as his face practically lights up. And it takes Chan’s breath away because he wants more of that. More of  _ this _ Minho.

Minho who truly enjoys living his life.

“Can I come around sometime?” Words leave Chan’s mouth before he can even think them through. Minho finally comes back from his trance, focusing his gaze on Chan’s face. “I-I mean if you want to?” He clears his throat, obviously panicking and feels as blood starts flowing to his face. “Not like you can’t say no, I will understand and you’re not—”

“It’s fine, Chan,” Minho interrupts him, and there is a gentle smile gracing his lips. “You let me in your workplace and now I guess it’s time to repay.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Chan tries to shut him quickly, so it comes out harsher than intended.  _ It’s me who owes you _ , he wants to add, but Chan is still too much of a coward.

Minho doesn’t push it further though, just letting the words hang in the air. “Just try not to wear that much of black.”

“Kids love colours?” Chan asks, exhaling with relief.

Minho looks at him, and it’s the gaze he hasn’t seen yet. It’s playful, almost like anything Minho does, stern at the same time, and kind of….  _ alluring? _ Chan melts under it, feeling his insides turn into mush. “No,” Minho replies and takes a pause. It’s eloquent – too short to make it awkward, but long enough to make Chan’s heart beat faster in anticipation. “Just want to see how good you look in colours.”

The button is pressed and Chan’s life comes into motion again.

*

Chan takes a deep breath, watching as Jiu gathers her things in the bag. His palms are sweaty, feeling sticky as he rubs them together, and his breath is hitched as he prepares to say the words.

“Jiu, can I have a day off please?” Chan shoots in one breath, shutting his eyes close.

Jiu stops moving, half-turning around and placing her hands on her hips. Technically, Chan needs to ask their boss for a day off, but they kind of made a pact with Jiu to fill in for each other when needed, not to have a stop out.

“Yeah, sure,” she shrugs, and continues her ministrations. “Why though?”

That was the most terrifying part of this. The possibility of spilling that all to Jiu.

Because Chan feels like an idiot.

“You see, I--,” he sucks in a breath, fiddling with his fingers. Chan feels like a pubescent teenager, asking his parents for permission to go on a date. “There is a guy—”

“Oh, so you have a date?” Her voice suddenly changes from scolding to excited. “Finally.”

_ Is it a date? _ “No, we’re just meeting up,” Chan decides to settle on that. Kind of like a grey zone. “He’s my …. friend.”

“ _ Friend, _ ” Jiu chuckles. “That’s why you’re ditching on your night shift as well? So you can do your  _ friendly _ things.”

“Oh, shut up,” Chan mumbles, but barely audible. He rarely snaps at Jiu, mostly trying to stay on good terms, but Chan gets kind of grumpy when he’s nervous. “I will just need to have a rest.”

“At night?”

“Emotionally, Jiu,” he rolls his eyes, hands clenching into fists.

Chan doesn’t want to admit it, but he is, indeed, hoping for some type of evening continuation. Because somewhere under the thick layers of denial and insecurities he considers it’s a date, and spending time in a nice place alone with Minho makes him feel warm and slightly dizzy.

But the mere thought of it is far too overwhelming.

“As you say,” Jiu replies, but her gaze is sparkling with mischievousness. “Just stay safe? You’re big boy, okay?”

“Jiu,” he groans.

“Bang Chan,” she mimics with a laugh. “It’s okay, have fun, kid.”

“You’re older like by three years,” Chan grumbles, watching as Jiu makes her way to the doors. “Hey,” he calls her out, and she throws him a glance over the shoulder. “Which colour do you think will pass me the most?”

Jiu’s lips twist in a knowing smile, as she hums, observing Chan now from head to toes. “White,” she says confidently. “Wear white tomorrow.”

Chan doesn’t like white but he’s ready to try.

*

“White?” It’s the first thing that he hears as Minho sees him. Chan wants to come up with a coherent answer but his breath is taken away by how gorgeous he looks in casual clothes. It’s nothing special – grey sweats and a black shirt with a quirky print that he can’t make out but Minho looks stunning. “I knew I should have specified the colour.”

He opens the door wider for Chan, inviting him in the studio. It doesn’t look chic at first glance, but Chan thinks it’s rather spacious and neat, and the windows let in just the right amount of daylight for it too seem cosier. “What’s wrong with white?” Chan asks, looking around the place, like a kid.

“Same thing as black,” Minho snorts, arranging the mats on the floor. Unlike Chan they are colourful, almost like the rainbow, making the room practically glowing. “I was hoping for yellow, or green.”

“Bold of you to assume I have those in my wardrobe.”

Minho asks him to help with arrangement, so for half an hour they just work in silence – Chan setting up the speakers while playing random songs and Minho bringing in all the training equipment in. It’s nice, and feels kind of domestic. And the ambience definitely less hooded than that they had at the cemetery.

“Your playlist choice is nice,” Chan shouts, almost into the void as Minho is too far away to hear. “Too many sultry songs though for a teacher.”

“That’s for  _ my _ dance routine,” Minho winks at him, Chan catches that even from afar, and the warmth accumulates at the pit of his stomach, the mere thought of Minho dancing to a slow-paced sexy song seeming way too overwhelming.

Kids start coming in thirty minutes later. At first Chan feels rather tensed up, awkward, even, desperately wanting to hide as he grasps on the hem of his white shirt that seems too loose. The kids seem to be tense around him as well, obviously controlling their behaviour in front of strangers, but Minho manages to tone it down as he demonstratively teases Chan in front of the children to show that he belongs.

“Don’t you think he lacks colours, kids?” Minho asks, voice clear and loud, full of joy. His eyes sparkle, and wide smile frames his face.

The unison of loud ‘yes!’ almost shakes up the room and Chan laughs, shaking his head.

“He is pretty though,” a little girl in the corner of the room, with bright stickers all over her cheeks says shyly, and Chan practically melts, because it’s so  _ sincere _ .

Chan realizes that Minho is right, after all, everything kids do is sincere. They don’t hold back, at least with Minho, saying anything that comes to their mind to your face, but giving out the warmest smile when you reciprocate the sincerity.

And Minho is  _ vivid _ . He is full of colours, it’s seen just in the way he talks, smiles, laughs, explains moves and gestures.

It’s everything that Chan lacks.

After the lesson is over, the same girl with stickers on her face comes to him, holding her hand palm up in Chan’s direction. At first he thinks she’s asking for something, and starts looking for crushed candies in his pockets, but then he sees a bright-coloured bracelet on her palm, incorporated with flowers and small beads.

“Thank you,” he whispers softly, putting it on. The little girl nods shyly, and runs, her small ponytails moving in tact with her.

“First present from a kid, congratulations!” Minho claps his hands, and by his expression Chan sees that he’s serious. “Takes awhile to get their acknowledgement.”

It’s a rainy day but Chan feels as if he’s spluttered under the warmest rays of sun. “I’m a charming guy,” he replies cheekily, and internally cringes at the way it comes out, because  _ really?  _ But Minho just snorts, mouthing quick ‘sure’, as he sits in front of him on the floor.

“So,” he starts carefully, as if he’s testing the waters, and if Chan didn’t know Minho he would tell he’s nervous.

“So,” Chan repeats, as the pause gets way too long. Minho bites down on his lip, avoiding Chan’s gaze, thrumming with his fingers along the surface.

Well, maybe he is nervous.

“Fuck it,” he hisses out after all, now looking straight into Chan’s eyes. “Do you want to come over, Chan?”

Minho’s voice is still bold, like him, but he asks that with more caution than usual. Chan’s heart drops, drops so fast and hard that he almost hears the sound ringing in his ears.

“Sure,” he forces out, accompanying it with a tensed smile.

*

The walk to Minho’s apartments is hazy, Chan is way too drawn within his own head to be even nervous. Minho tries to fill it in with a small talk, telling stories mostly related to work, and Chan just manages to smile and nod at the right places.

His insides is a mush and palms are way too sweaty for a grown-ass adult who just got invited to come over. Minho is still too perfect and too beautiful, and Chan is still a terrible overthinker.

“Welcome,” Minho says when Chan enters the room after him. It’s small, tiny even, the kitchen is not even properly separated from the living room. But the pastel colours are nice, and unlike Chan’s own hollow apartments this feels like an actual home, as he sees Minho in the way books are neatly organised, and sticky notes are placed on the fridge.

Still the tension doesn’t go. Chan feels it in his bones, flesh, skin, everywhere. It’s like he’s anticipating something, but doesn’t know where it should strike. Minho looks relaxed though, way too absorbed in the calming atmosphere.

“It’s nice,” Chan mutters under his breath. “Feels like you,” he blurts out before he can stop himself.

He doesn’t hear Minho’s steps behind, but when Chan turns around he suddenly realizes how he is cornered between the man and the wall, leaning back on it for support.

The words are lost somewhere between their needy gazes and soft breaths, as Minho traces along the sleeve of Chan’s shirt gently. His skin is still under a thin layer of fabric but Chan feels shots of electricity tingling everywhere Minho leaves his touches. “White,” he mumbles, shutting his eyes close for a second. “You look so fucking good in white.”

Chan holds onto the last straws of control he has, breathing in and out fast. He feels numb, but on fire at the same time, and the only thing he wants is  _ to do something _ .

“Then do something,” he whispers back hoarsely, voicing out his thoughts for once.

Minho clutches on the ends of Chan’s shirt, bumping their foreheads together as he exhales somewhere near his mouth.

For a split second Chan thinks it’s superficial. Like a bare soulless desire, a need to have someone clutching onto you, just to feel someone wanting you, as you get lost in their warmth. But before that raw, unfiltered need, there were words, smiles, Minho’s bright eyes and a low tug in Chan’s chest.

And Chan thinks he’s far too deep in that for it to be superficial.

Their lips connect, slightly at first, just barely touching. But it’s yet enough to make Chan fall apart. He pulls onto Minho’s shirt as he presses in more, deepening the kiss.

Chan has been touch-starved for way too long, so the last grains of sanity scatter around all at once, and the emotions take over. He feels Minho’s hands sliding somewhere under his shirt, and they are cold, almost feeling as he’s biting down on his skin, and Chan can’t help but gasp into the kiss letting out low whimpers.

“It’s funny,” Minho mumbles as they pull apart. He is smiling, and his cheeks are red and flushed, and Chan wants to engrave the moment in his mind forever.

“What exactly?” His voice is hoarse, and it feels like it will crack at any minute.

“That we met at the fucking cemetery,” Minho huffs a laugh, head falling onto Chan’s shoulder. “I just wanted peace, Chan,” he whispers into his skin, and Chan thinks he’s losing his mind all over again.

His life was peaceful. Steady, even, moving at the same pace. And after some time, Chan realizes that it wasn’t black, or purely white. It was shades of grey, the same as the colour of the marble of graveyards, the same as the colour of apathy on people’s faces when they pass through the cemetery’s cabin. Chan’s life was still.

But in a desperate search of peace and steadiness, Minho makes Chan’s life glister with colours again.

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to varya for proofreading and lina for giving her expert opinion as a writer ^^  
> please give a lot of love to our birthday boy, stream all in and back door, and take care 
> 
> [twt](https://twitter.com/softouchan)  
> [cc](https://curiouscat.me/softouchan)
> 
> also i made [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/softouches)  
> if you want you can buy me a coffee ;)


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